"I hate you! I hate you more than anything I've ever hated in my life!"
And the girl stood before the stony-eyed old woman, waiting for judgement to pass.
She knew everything she had done was wrong and terrible and a great treachery that sucked the blackest of life from the depths of her mind with the clearest, ugliest tendrils of evil and hatred.
It was like choking herself with her own hand.
"I don't care! I hate you! I hope you die! Just leave me the fuck alone!"
The world was a cruel place and came up with the strangest, most twisted people it could. She always figured she must have been the worst type of person.
The worst type of person because she hated too much and loved very, very little.
In fact, she didn't love at all.
"You're so stupid! I don't know how you could be my mother when you're so stupid! I hate you so much!"
She really didn't know why; none of it ever added up to reasonable, honest answer.
You might not guess it at first glance, or even by the first words she might speak to you. But look her in the eye, deep in the eye and you will see the choleric turbulence that never ever leaves her; despite how she twists and turns in her own skin.
Trust does not come easy to this poor, twisted little girl.
Love does not come at all.
"If you die I'll be just too happy!"
She often wishes she could pull herself apart, seam by seam, to sew herself back together in a way that works and pleases everyone.
She wishes she could fix herself to work right. To work like she should, because something must be broken. Something must be oh-so shattered for her to be so stupid and apathetic and ridiculously ignorant of every other person when it suits her stupid, naive needs.
She is not a monster.
She is simply a monstrosity; a volcano; a whirlwind; a tsunami waiting to spew vehemence and drown the world in her own ill-placed hatred.
Ironic, really, that she never wanted to be that way.
"I hate you. I hope you die. Just leave me alone you stupid bitch."
So she stood before that stony-eyed old woman.
That woman that was her mother.
That mother that she had petrified from the inside out – she knew what awaited her.
"No daughter of mine would do that to me. If she did, I would hate that girl and wish she was dead and curse her up and down."
A lengthy, sad pause.
"No. I have no daughter. She has been dead for a long, long time."
And that was the end of the mother and the daughter.
That daughter no longer has a mother and that mother no longer has a daughter.
A mother's love is not endless, eternal, forever, or always.
A mother's love is not what they say when her child is a demon.
a/n: A little something I wrote about mothers that lie and daughters that hate and the demons that eat their hearts away.